


Open Mic Night

by egocentrifuge



Series: Another We (RandL OC Fics) [4]
Category: Rhett & Link
Genre: Choking, M/M, Penetrative Sex, Pining, Rimming, drug mention, except blowjobs, it's got it all, it's the oc's baby, sad old man mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-18
Updated: 2019-02-18
Packaged: 2019-10-31 06:00:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,777
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17843780
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/egocentrifuge/pseuds/egocentrifuge
Summary: "You’re drunk,” Randy repeats, slow-like. “Have a smoke. Get some water.”Ah, so he’s a good guy. How disappointing. Lohn gives it a last ditch attempt, a crude, “You’ll suck me off if I sober up?” that hell, he’d hit himself for. But Randy only snorts, shakes his head.Later, Lohn’ll think about the way his stomach lurched and that whiskey burn had filled every part of him at Randy’s response and wonder if it’d been what he was after all this time. In the moment, he freezes at the low:“Nah, but I’ll let you suckmeoff.”Lohn tries to say, “I ain’t like that,” but all that comes out is a shaky breath and shoot -  maybe he is.





	Open Mic Night

It's the third whiskey that tips Lohn over--or is the fourth? He can't remember. That's the point, that's _always_ the point, because at least warm and dizzy he can pretend the pit in his chest's because of the booze. It's easier to drink than deal with it, and Lohn Lightning is nothing if not a practical man. He can't always be on stage, can't always keep distracted with bright lights and small crowds. So Lohn drinks.

Sometimes, Lohn fights.

It's what he's itching for tonight, after whiskey three, maybe whiskey four. The show'd been fine - coupla people even seemed to be there for it, rather than curious bystanders willing to pay the cover fee - but Lohn's attention keeps straying back to the bouncer. When he'd shook Lohn's hand earlier he'd reminded Lohn of - well, who knows. There's plenty of tall folks in the world. and plenty of them blonde and bespectacled as well. Could be anyone.

Tonight he's Mr. Three or maybe Four, though, a fascination borne of the same drink Lohn's still sipping as he sidles up to the goliath friendly-like.

"Howdy, fella," Lohn manages, after a moment to find his tongue. "You ah, come here often?"

The bouncer looks down at Lohn with a twist to his mouth that Lohn thinks is real promising--like he's a crude joke away from putting him flat on his ass--but then, the eyes are the window to the soul and Lohn can't see much of anything there on account'a the dude's shades. Who wears sunglasses at night, indoors?

Lohn drowns the name that comes to mind with a swallow of his drink and it burns, burns the memory away.

"I work here," the bouncer says, and Lohn dredges up a smirk from the bottom of the bottle and steadies himself against the door.

"What a coincidence," Lohn says. "Me too, tonight. Remind me of your name, son."

The bouncer shakes his head, crossing arms that bulge even through his leather jacket, but still says, "Randy," gamely, then again when Lohn doesn't hear him.

"You're sauced, old man," Randy chuckles - it's a good sound, even if his choice of words has Lohn touching his chest, hurt. "I should escort you out."

"I'd prefer it if you escorted me home," Lohn says. "Or maybe to the bathroom, a dark corner, I ain't picky." It makes Randy stiffen, and Lohn braces himself, the booze rushing up to take the hit that - doesn't come.

"You're drunk," Randy repeats, slow-like. "Have a smoke. Get some water."

Ah, so he's a good guy. How disappointing. Lohn gives it a last ditch attempt, a crude, "You'll suck me off if I sober up?" that hell, he'd hit himself for. But Randy only snorts, shakes his head.

Later, Lohn'll think about the way his stomach lurched and that whiskey burn had filled every part of him at Randy's response and wonder if it'd been what he was after all this time. In the moment, he freezes at the low:

"Nah, but I'll let you suck _me_ off."

Lohn tries to say, "I ain't like that," but all that comes out is a shaky breath and shoot, maybe he is.

This were all about forgetting, all about killing the man that he was.

Lohn gets himself a water.

\--

This ain't the first time Lohn's stayed in a bar past close, ain't even the first time he's had someone meet him in the parking lot. But Lohn's never had to crane up to kiss someone, let alone dealt with the prick of a beard along his cheeks. His heart's beating faster in his chest than it has in years, and shoot, if this counts as cardio then call Lohn an athlete. He's not sober, not really, but alcohol ain't the reason his head's spinning as Randy presses him back against his truck. _Shit_ but this boy's strong. Lohn's lucky he hadn't taken offense, though he's not sure he's glad Randy took him up on his flirting. Contrary to popular belief, Lohn's never done this, never let a man kiss him hard and filthy, never had another man's erection press against hip in a hot line that has Lohn breaking away for air desperately as he tries to figure out if he's having a crisis.

Randy's done this before, he's got to have, because he latches onto Lohn's neck with a ferocity that has Lohn's knees shaking and murmurs _want me to fuck you?_ like Lohn has the first idea of what that entails.

But still, "Shit, yeah," Lohn gasps, bucking against Randy at the concept. Randy doesn't so much as sway and it has Lohn throbbing in his tight jeans to know he couldn't get Randy off of him if he wanted.

Lohn doesn't know how long they kiss there outside the bar, out in the open where anyone could see them and start that fight Lohn barely remembers itching for. He doesn't know the first thing about how two men go about having relations, but he does know a thing or two about driving buzzed, and when Randy pushes him away with a low _come on, then,_ Lohn's already got his keys in his hand.

They don't make it to the bed. That's probably Lohn's fault, but he's playing this by ear, and when you've got a strong motherfucker set to ravish you like a heroine in one of them harlequins you definitely don't read Lohn's pretty sure you don't pass up the opportunity to be pressed up against a motel door. Course, it's never front-first, in all them books, but the drag of denim against Lohn's ass might just be better. He only knows he's biting his arm to muffle himself when Randy grabs him by the hair and pulls him off of it, murmurs _let me hear you_ as the pain pricks up like fireworks and has Lohn moaning louder than he's ever done. Hell if he's ever been this hard, ever wanted someone to - to _fuck_ him. Under Randy's weight it's difficult to spread his legs but Lohn gets some space when he gasps out _come on_ with a desperate twist that has him blushing.

Lohn's fucked some girls like this, before he could buy condoms legal-like and then after, when he couldn't afford them, but he ain't never had someone drag his jeans off him and drop to their knees, mouth pressed up against a place Lohn doesn't give the time of day. He gets a spike of anxiety he's gotten to know since - well, the wedding.

 _The time he'd gotten to be a best man but not_ a good enough _man, someone that couldn't watch the one that got away say his vows without nips at a flask of homebrewed hooch they'd named themselves after._

It takes him long enough to voice his doubts about where Randy's about to put his mouth that he loses the words to a groan when Randy ups and does it, or rather, kneels and does it, Lohn's jeans caught around his boots and his breath caught high in his throat in a sound that has shame licking up his throat and his cock all the harder.

The first knuckle burns, slick with just spit and desire, but Randy's mouth eases the way and has Lohn hiccupping his way through two fingers before they even make it past the door.

Lohn's not real sure when it gets easier, but he thinks he can recognize the scent of cheap lube even through the haze as Randy works a third finger inside of him, other huge hand on Lohn's flagging erection keeping him from slipping into his head in the dim motel room. He vaguely remembers getting to the bed via Randy's arms, but it's hard to think past the tears pricking in his eyes and the tight grip on his prick, and, oh yeah, the three fingers _up his ass_ stretching him out for a stranger to use. Lohn fists his hands in the cigarette scented sheets and rocks back, and the feeling that sparks through him as Randy's fingers curve and _press_ is enough to have Lohn shouting out, hoarse.

Randy laughs, low and pleased, asks, "How's that, old man?" as if Lohn could even start to respond. He doesn't seem to expect an answer, just finds the right angle and does it again.

Time passes. Lohn doesn't know how much, wouldn't be able to guess if his life depended on it. All he can say for sure is that the sheets below him are a mess, cock dripping precome and thighs dripping with lube, and that he's ready, so fucking ready, feels like he's been waiting all his life for this.

"I've got you," Randy mumbles, and Lohn swallows down the rest of the words he didn't know he'd been babbling, struggles not to keen as Randy takes his fingers back. It's a struggle to flip over, but it's worth it to see hair falling around him in a curtain, light catching a beard that could almost be the one that's been haunting Lohn's dreams.

"Let me -" Lohn starts, stops as his aching voice breaks. "On top?"

Randy's teeth glint in the gloom as he smirks. Somewhere along the way he'd ditched his aviators, and in the dark Lohn can convince himself Randy's eyes are the same periwinkle blue as his Rabbit's (not his anymore).

"Thought that might be what you wanted, cowboy."

Lohn ends up with one boot off, jeans caught on one ankle around where the other's still on, jacket lost somewhere off the side of the bed and two buttons valiantly trying to keep Lohn's shirt closed. Randy's naked, and Lohn doesn't blame him - body like that and Lohn'd be naked, too. Not that Randy seems to have any complaints about Lohn's body; one of his hands is wandering up Lohn's sticky thigh, the other is squeezing maddeningly at Lohn's chest. Lohn wants to tell him there ain't nothing to grab, but, well, not only is he heavier'n he'd been as a boy, but Randy's pinching and squeezing feels better than it has any right to.

"Any day now," Randy says, his smile lopsided and as achingly familiar as it is glaringly different. Lohn realizes he's just been kneeling there over Randy's lap, gaping.

"Ah, sure. Here goes nothing."

As dirty talk goes, it's not the worst thing Lohn's ever said in bed, so he ignores Randy's booming laugh and wraps a hand around around the boy's dick instead. It's - it's big, and coming from Lohn, that means something. It's not as strange to touch as Lohn thought it might be, if he had ever thought about this -

_It wasn't about sex, it was about the music he could hear in his head when he earned a smile, the mad scramble to try and write a song that made his audience feel a fraction of the joy Lohn felt when they were together, even comprehend the heartbreak Lohn'd gone through when his man had found himself a woman -_

He distracts himself with Randy's mouth, uses the momentum to - well, do what needs to be done, line Randy's cock up to where Lohn's aching for him. It's, _fuck_ , it's so much more than Lohn ever considered it might be for the women he's been with, the feeling of having someone literally inside of him, making room where there hadn't been any before--

He's going to write a song about this. Two songs. Possibly every song he writes after this is going to involve some oblique, flowery language about the emotional impact of having a cock up his ass.

But for now - Lohn's not thinking. Lohn's just moving, little twitches of his hips that take Randy's cock deeper, noises tearing from Lohn's throat blessedly without any chance of ever forming words.

Randy's talking, though, hands carding through Lohn's hair, and Lohn checks back in somewhere between the fifth and the seventh inch, thighs shaking hard enough that he can feel it in Randy's chest where he's braced himself.

"So fucking good," Randy's saying. "Doing such a great job, you're almost there, _fuck_ , bro -"

He's not talking to Lohn, not anymore, and where there should be offense Lohn finds only aching sympathy and relief.

"Redd," he breathes, and Randy muffles whatever name he's trying to forget into Lohn's neck before sucking a hickey into the tendon. The pain helps ground Lohn, distracts from the fullness and the pressure; it's what he needs to bottom out.

Lohn sits there, chest heaving, wondering distantly if it would be in poor taste to rhyme _full_ with _bull_ , until Randy starts moving.

It's - Lohn's used to friction from the other end, the wet slide of his dick into something tight and warm. He's never gotten to feel something press inside, open him up, leave him aching for more even as his muscles relax back into place just slow enough to tell something's been there. He's never felt the drag of something hard and smooth against someplace he ain't used to touching himself, let alone let someone else, _fuck_ \- literally, ah -

Then Randy's not so much changing his angle as maneuvering Lohn's hips like it's nothing and Lohn can't stop his pained, "Oh, fuck - that's it, brother -"

The response is instantaneous; the room spins around Lohn before his back's to the bed and his legs are closer to his chest than they've been in a decade and Randy is growling as he fucks the melancholy right out of Lohn.

"Mine," he's saying, punctuating every thrust like a mantra. Lohn can't tell if it's Randy's thighs or his balls slapping Lohn's ass hard enough to hear, but either way the sound is obscene.

It's a struggle to find enough air to speak, find his voice buried in the moans, but Lohn manages, "Yours, I'm yours, come on, bro -" and is rewarded with a bruising kiss that goes on and on and on until Lohn's head is spinning and he realizes that, fuck, _shit,_ there's a hand around his throat, he's gonna -

 _Redd's worried eyes when the spots clear from Lohn's vision, the taste of whipped cream in his mouth and a million memories on the tip of his tongue--playing hookie to swim in their creek, getting too sick on homemade wine to make it to homecoming, crashing South Bend's prom--a thousand times Lohn wanted to kiss Redd and didn't know it bubbling to the surface like nitrous and_ popping _, leaving him empty and buzzing. Answering Redd's 'why're you crying?' with, 'the music, brother,' because he's facing it now: He's in love with a taken man and they're graduating in a week and Lohn's gonna cut and run like his daddy'd done, another no-good Lamont, just as bad for Redd as everyone had said -_

When Lohn's vision clears there's a weight on his chest that makes it harder to breathe than them metaphorical ones normally do and his hips are aching.

"Wassat?" he croaks. There's an answering laugh that he feels all the way in his, _oh_ , that's right -

Lohn's stomach is a sticky mess between them and Randy's still hard inside him.

"Sorry," Lohn slurs, too worn out to be embarrassed. "Ain't called Lohn _Lightning_ for nothin'."

"Was that your name?" Randy asks, then, "This okay?" as he starts moving again. It's gentler, this time, more grinding than anything, and Lohn hopes his shaky moan is answer enough because he's got nothing left in him.

Well - "Did you _choke_ me, brother?" - almost nothing, and the effort is worth it to get Randy's shuddery gasp and sudden stillness in response.

Lohn feels Randy's dick twitching and fancies he can feel the mess he's making, too, but the God's honest truth is that Lohn can't feel much of anything besides his joints protesting and that first little bit of a hangover what means he should have another drink.

Neither of them make any move to clean up once Randy pulls out and rolls over with a slick sound that has Lohn's ears burning. Neither of them make much move at all, really, until:

"My car's back at the bar."

Lohn closes his eyes, breathes through the pit in his chest. It doesn't hurt so much, in the afterglow, and Lohn's never felt as practical as he does when he says, "I'll give you a ride back in the morning," with the barest suggestion in his voice.

For a moment, he thinks Randy's gonna fight, but then the mattress creaks and a thick arm's being slung over Lohn's chest with a grunt.

Lohn falls asleep to a new song, that night.


End file.
